


In Memoriam

by cinnamon_lyons



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not much serenity, Pain, Rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short piece summarising Erik's anger and pain after Cuba and Charles' futile efforts to win him back with a secret mental visit. And mind sex, naturally.</p><p>This was actually the first Cherik I wrote, way back when First Class came out. I'm trying to inspire myself to finish some of my other fics by posting old stuff...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

When he was alone, Erik often took off the helmet.

He wasn’t sure which part of this action was most foolish. Was it the un-spoken thought that Charles might be out there looking for him, tracking him down with Cerebro; that he might have encouraged Hank to develop a multitude of other devices purely in order to try and – what? Control Erik? Redeem him? Or was it the fact that he doubted any of the others would even notice the act, still less view it as he did himself, as a sign of weakness? Even Emma, who could probe that far, wouldn’t dare to, Erik was sure of that. Or was it the weakness itself? Perhaps he had even picked up some of Charles’ arrogance. Because, ultimately, he knew that Charles wouldn’t be looking for him. That every time he removed the helmet, there would be nothing there. And that was when he felt bleakest of all.

Sometimes it was hard to stop himself heading north, as if being geographically close would encourage Charles to find him. Erik found himself thinking up countless spurious pretexts to visit New York; to wander, helmetless, through Westchester. He never voiced any of these thoughts. But the very thinking of them made him angry. Angry that he had lost Charles. Angry that he had met him in the first place. Was it really better to have loved and lost? He had been alone all his adult life, but Erik had never felt as lonely as he did now.

When Mystique told him that she wanted to visit Charles: that she had to know he was okay after that day on the beach, Erik was scathing. He let her go, but he didn’t hide his disappointment. In the end, Mystique had run from the room, tears in her eyes. Erik watched her go, his own eyes dry, and he wondered if he was forgetting how to feel anything but anger. He hated himself for that. Hated himself still more for wanting to go with her. But most of all, he hated Charles. Every day, he felt the anger building. And he knew there would be no serenity any more.

**

How to mourn a relationship you hardly anticipated or comprehended? How to mourn when you know the one you lost is still so close? Erik mourned the way he always had: the long, slow, methodical search for those he knew, given half a chance, would have him dead. The hunt made him feel safe, in control; he knew he was good at this, knew in time the anger would ease until he almost forgot it was there. Right now, though, it was so strong he could barely mask it.

He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he saw Charles again...

It was hard to get used to hunting in a pack. Hard to get used to it when Charles was not one of them. Maybe he would, in time, but right now they were all scared of him, he knew that. Even Mystique, who had chosen to come with him, in whose yellow eyes he could see a simple and certain faith in him, born of teaching her to trust herself. Perhaps Mystique most of all, for she could see how much and how quickly the rage had grown. Sometimes he would catch Emma glancing at him, and he recognised the look in her eyes from the day he had first met her. It was the way she had looked at Sebastian Shaw: awed and adoring and, beneath this, a dull, numbing terror. Her strange air of vulnerability beneath that diamond exterior infuriated him. It angered him that she feared him and stayed with him.

But most of all, he hated her simply for not being Charles.

When he saw Emma sparkle, flesh shimmering into diamond, he thought of the day he and Charles had forced her to betray Shaw. Of the way they had walked in, surprised to witness her stunt with the Russian general. And he thought, Charles could do that. Charles could do that and no one else would ever know. Charles could visit unheard, unseen by any eyes but Erik’s. And Erik would feel the touch he yearned for, feel Charles’ hands gliding down his back, lips brushing his neck, and he would not lose face with anyone, he could even pretend to himself that it had never happened.

So, why didn’t Charles do it?

**

After all those months of thinking it, Erik was actually surprised when, one day, he looked up and Charles was standing in the doorway. Erik caught his breath in a sharp hiss, teeth catching on his lower lip. His first thought was to reach out, fingers brushing the smooth curve of the helmet on the desk beside him, curling over to pick it up – and then he froze, realisation hitting him.

“You’re not really here, are you?” He asked. Charles’ face was impassive, un-smiling.

“If I was here, I wouldn’t be standing up.” He pointed out. Was there a hint of bitterness in his voice? No longer so naive, Erik thought. Which might have helped them get on, had it not also been the reason things could never be the same between them again. The very thought made him angry.

“You want me to say I’m sorry?” The words were sharp, attacking, the very opposite of their meaning. Charles shook his head.

“Erik, we’re beyond sorry.” Then he paused, his voice softening a little. “It doesn’t matter any more, does it?” Erik was still staring at him fiercely and he shrugged. “We adapt. That’s what we are, after all: adaptations. Does it matter why?” Erik’s eyes still burnt, the anger that had blazed through him un-checked for months flaring to the surface once more. Charles gazed at him coolly, his eyes clear pools of serenity.

“Calm your mind, Erik.” He said, with such authority that Erik’s momentary thought – “But what if I don’t want to?” – was instantly lost in a haze of memories. It was so easy just to let go... The images jarred in his mind, more obviously incongruous than the sight of Charles in front of him: a little too bright, a little faded round the edges... But, with them, came the feelings – surging in despite the fact that Erik knew this was all a trick, a ruse, it was one that he had longed for. And it was true. This really was how it had been.  
It was not so long ago – mere months – during the time they’d trained in Westchester. The training had given them both a purpose, a meaning to their lives, just as gathering the other mutants had. Just as they had found meaning in each other...

In Erik’s mind they lay, sheened with sweat among rumpled sheets, basking in the afterglow of orgasm. There had been no need to speak – no need to hold each other, or even turn to look into each other’s eyes. They simply lay, side by side, shoulders just touching. Erik could feel the warmth of Charles’ arm against his, felt Charles’ thigh brush against him and he had known then, as he knew now, that Charles felt the same as him. Erik had never felt so close to anyone in his life.

He remembered now that he had wanted, then, to tell Charles that he loved him. But, Erik realised, he never had.

They had both been naive, he thought: imagining that the moment, the peace that they had found, would last forever. As the images faded, he found that there were tears in his eyes, for the first time since he had left Charles. A great emptiness rose up inside him: for all that he had lost, so suddenly and so soon. He couldn’t look at Charles, then, didn’t want to know whether Charles too had shed a tear, didn’t want to acknowledge his own.

“What’s the good of memories?” He said, trying to stop his voice from faltering. “You know it can never be like that again.”

“Maybe not.” Charles’ voice was filled with compassion. “But who’s to say change is a bad thing?” He paused, and Erik looked up finally, a lump in his throat, wanting to hope but knowing how much sorrow hope could bring. “My friend,” Charles said softly. “It’s not too late.”

Erik’s eyes widened, and he was speechless for a moment, stunned by Charles’ words. He stared right into Charles’ eyes and felt as if he could almost disappear there – dive right into the clear blue pools and lose himself, give up anything Charles asked... He licked his lips, mouth dry.

“You couldn’t trust me.” He managed finally, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “Not after what happened.”

“No.” Charles admitted, and his gaze was piercing, his expression solemn. “But then, you never really trusted me, did you?” There was a long pause, each frozen staring into the other’s eyes, and then Charles spoke again, his voice softer, taking a step forward so that he was now only a few feet away. “Where will it ever end, Erik, answer me that? You vanquish the human race – or enslave them – whatever it is that you consider rightful vengeance... and what then? Do you really think that we are so different? Do you really think we would not turn on each other, mutant against mutant?” He paused, and his voice was so soft it was barely a whisper. “Do you really think the world would be a better place?”

Erik didn’t answer, because there was no answer. There was only the fight or the surrender, his way or Charles’: neither had a solution.

“Still out to save the world, Charles?” He asked wearily, suddenly heartily tired of everything, the whole sorry game. Charles smiled sadly.

“Still out to destroy it, Erik?” Erik frowned. Was that what he wanted? Could he ever believe in life – in anything – the way Charles did?

“Isn’t it natural selection?” He asked, sarcasm behind his words for he knew that this was the real difference between them. No matter how many bullets were flung at him, Charles would never see the war for what it was. “Survival of the fittest?” Charles shook his head, his expression sad – disappointed even.

“Oh Erik...” He said, “What makes us better than men, answer me that? Physical strength? Would we have come this far if that was all it took? It’s easily forgotten that Darwin, Spencer, all the early evolutionists explained the dominance of man by his social instincts, not his physical ability. Many suggest that nature is harsh – and many forget what Darwin saw as placing us apart from the animal kingdom. Sympathy, Erik.” Erik felt a touch on his shoulder and looked up, startled, not having noticed Charles approach him. He felt the warmth of Charles’ hand through the fabric of his clothing and swallowed, the instinct to pull away and that to submit to Charles’ touch warring inside him.

“You can’t suggest that human actions are governed by sympathy.” He managed, and in his mind’s eye he saw Shaw: _I made you powerful, Erik_.

“No.” Charles agreed. “But they could be.” And, as Erik looked once more into Charles’ eyes, deep wells of compassion, he let himself think for a moment that perhaps Charles was right. And, as he thought this, he found his own hands rising up to take Charles’ shoulders, twisting his body towards him, Charles’ face still a little sad as Erik kissed him.

  
They both knew, by then, that this would alter nothing, that they were still poles apart. But both wanted to pretend that it would, the hope that Erik had thought quite dead blazing up fiercely into passion as he held Charles close, their kisses ever more urgent, fingers grappling at each other’s bodies as if they could claw back what they had lost. Charles tugged at Erik’s clothing, drawing back his head in a gasp and Erik knew that, really here or no, Charles wanted this as much as he did: perhaps more. And he wondered, as he tugged down the zip on his own jacket, sure that he really did feel Charles’ hands slide inside over his chest, if Charles would ever truly give up on him. If, however deep a wedge their differences drove between them, Charles would still have the arrogance to think that he could save him. Perhaps Charles was right, Erik thought, fumbling with the buttons on Charles’ shirt. Perhaps that really did make him the better man.

And then he was unable to think of anything but Charles’ body, every inch of it familiar, every touch seeming to spark a thousand memories that burst like fireworks and as quickly faded away. They staggered clumsily backward, still wrapped in desperate embrace as they tumbled onto Erik’s bed. Erik twisted one hand through Charles’ hair, pulling his lover towards him for another kiss, legs wrapped around him so that he could feel Charles’ erection brush maddeningly against his own.

  
“Oh...” Charles murmured, as Erik’s lips met his throat. “Oh Erik...” Erik smiled to himself, still more memories unfurling. Charles had always been the more vocal during sex, Erik himself barely forming a word: just grunts and groans, spurred on by Charles’ “Oh God! Erik! Oh, fuck me!” He could hear the urgency in Charles’ voice now, thick with desire and, despite everything, he loved him for it. Wanted him for it. Erik let his teeth nip Charles’ neck, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp, opening his eyes to look once again into Charles’, half-lidded with pleasure. Erik’s hands skimmed Charles’ buttocks, circling his thigh to slip between his legs, fingers slowly wrapping around his cock. He tightened them, sliding his hand full-length, hearing Charles gasp again. “Christ!”

Erik pressed his face against Charles’ neck, tasting sweat, his hand pumping faster, harder. And he could have sworn that Charles’ hand was wrapped around his own cock, tugging it furiously in time with Erik’s groans. He could have sworn that the flesh beneath his fingers was real, that Charles’ cock jumped and spat, warm semen trickling down over his hand a good few seconds before his own orgasm burst through him.

Erik lay, gasping, on his back beside Charles, their positions mirroring the memory Charles had given him earlier. And he said, just for a moment not caring about showing weakness, “Stay with me.” And then, more urgently. “I want you by my side!” Charles was silent for a long time.

“As you do what?” He said finally and, although neither of them seemed to have moved, Erik could no longer feel the warmth of Charles’ skin against him. “Take over the world? Oh Erik, Erik... surely you of anyone should know where that will end.” Erik shook his head, turning over onto his side away from Charles, knowing that the moment was over.

“Better destruction than self-sacrifice...” He murmured.

They lay for a moment in silence, and then Erik heard Charles roll over, felt a hand run through his hair and down his cheek. And he steeled himself, trying not to respond, to ignore the fact that Charles’ voice was shaking a little.

“Anything you do to hurt me...” Charles’ voice was little more than a whisper. “You should know that what you do to yourself hurts me far more.” Charles’ hand pulled at his shoulder and, reluctantly, Erik rolled over. Charles was smiling, his eyes bright with unshed tears as he brushed Erik’s cheek. “Erik, don’t you think, after everything, that you deserve a little happiness?”

And Erik couldn’t answer, because there was no answer that Charles would accept. He knew what Charles wanted to hear, knew what was expected, but he could hardly think of himself as the victim anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time, he had made sure of that. He watched, strangely detached, as a single tear slid down Charles’ cheek amid the silence and he wondered if, wherever Charles was, he was really crying.

“I love you.” Charles said finally. “But that was never enough, was it?”

Erik wished it was that simple. He wished he could believe in all the hiding and waiting, in a school that could be safe because it would not be regarded as an army. He knew that Charles would die believing in it, would always be surprised when the guns swivelled to point at him.

Erik closed his eyes for a long second and, when he opened them, Charles was no longer there.

**Author's Note:**

> Re-reading this, it struck me that this could have been inspired by Danger Mouse/Sparklehorse's 'Revenge'. It fits perfectly! Except, if it was, it was a subconscious thing.
> 
> "Strange, it seems like a character mutation,  
> Though I have all the means of bringing you fuckers down  
> I can't make myself, to destroy upon command.  
> Somehow forgiveness lets the evil make the laws,
> 
> No, you can't hide what you intend,  
> It glows in the dark.  
> Once we become the thing we dread  
> There's no way to stop  
> And the more I try to hurt you the more it backfires..."


End file.
